Reign of Scarlet
by fieldandfountain
Summary: This is the tale proud Will Scarlet, who lost everything and found the hope among Robin Hood and his men. This is the tale of Evelyn of Perevil, the baroness who fought to maintain a doubtful birthright amidst the ashes of a lost love. And of Greyes, the cunning Sheriff who sought to control them all. If you like, please review! Helps me to update faster. Romance/Drama/Adventure
1. Chapter 1

Welcome! Here is an original story based on the Robin Hood legends. It will be very long and epic! I've already written at least half of it, but I need the impetus to pull it together, edit, and complete it. Please read and review, and enjoy!

**Prologue**:

It was May Day in the tiny hamlet of Harvens. The mulberry bush, hidden in the alcoves of a small stone house, bore fruit overnight and come dawn, doves of white and grey rested on its branches and fed.

Through the doors of house, blanched by the incoming light, a woman lay dying. A girl sat perched on a wooden stool beside the bed, her eyes transfixed as though by witchcraft on her mother's face.

"I'm still here," the woman said. With great effort she turned her head to look out the window. "Those pigeons," she called, delirious. "They'll finish off the berries."

The girl hurried to scare the birds away, but her mother held fast to her arm. "Don't. Let them eat. It's a sin to deny a creature a simple pleasure." Her eyes glowed with an eerie fascination.

They sat in silence for one minute, two. "What will you do now, my girl?"

"I will send for the midwife. She must have a remedy for you."

"What I mean is, what will you do when I'm gone?"

"You're still young, mother," said the girl gently, her voice tinged with fear. You're not going to die."

The woman smiled, bemused. "If I were to die, say, in some distant time, how would you care for yourself?"

"The neighbors would help, I'm sure. I would take in washing, hire myself as a servant."

"That's no work for you. You are a wild girl. You are not fit to work as a servant." It was half praise, and half condemnation, and Evelyn bowed her head.

"You must not do it alone. You must go to the baron and tell him-"

"My father? But will he- "

"He'll take you in." The woman laughed hoarsely. "I've always known."

"I can't go to him now. I want to stay here, in this house. And you'll be well again."

"I know this aching in my side. It's calling me to God. And you to your father."

"This is my home. He is-almost a stranger to me."

"This is no place for you. Not alone. This is a land of spirits. And the Green Man roams these woods at night with his men."

The girl pursed her lips. "I'm certainly not afraid of Robin Hood."

The woman's eyes alighted with a strange fire. "You should be. Be afraid of any man who is not your own kind. Go to Perevil, and tell him who you are." Her words carried all the furious energy of a last request.

"What-what if he doesn't believe me?"

The woman reached out her arm to her daughter's face. She saw herself in this girl, in the dark weight of her hair and her sloping shoulders. Her gaze so enhanced by longing-this she knew from the baron, who was cursed never to be satisfied. And the woman laughed. "He'll know you! I hardly doubt that!" Her breathing grew labored and heavy and her voice was hoarse with phlegm. "Call for the Friar! I must make my peace with God!" She coughed like an old man and the girl started. Her mother was still so young. This was simply not possible.

"I will call the midwife- or the baron, he can help us now! He will loan us his physician! You will live!"

The death rattle set in, so hoarse and unearthly that the girl cried out.

Leuruna was dead by noon.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Evelyn had seen the baron several times throughout her childhood. He seemed a kind of sprite that could summon new clothes and sweets with a wink. He had even summoned her, and sitting with his servant on horseback on the way to the Inn, it had seemed she was spirited to another land. The baron was always a kind of foreigner to her- he could not be her father or any staple of her life. But she accepted his kiss with obedience, and learned over time to curtsy. In their brief visits, acceptance and not love grew between them. His interest had waned, and though a gift or two of game would appear from time to time, she had not seen him in years.

But here he was before her, and her future lay in his hands. She never had seen a man as clean as the baron, and he exuded the scent of strange herbs. Her father was still and his movements were courtly and angular, as though he were on the verge of dancing. His short beard was chestnut and very curly- had it been on any other man she would have imagined its texture in her hands, but it seemed too great of an impertinence to think of touching him. His lazy eye that occasionally drifted to right only contributed to his patrician otherness. The wandering eye was considered an evil among her people, but the nobility were ever the exception.

Two other men in rich embroidered tunics stood beside him. They moved like puppets, their every movement a reaction to his. When he walked, they inclined at the waist.

The pristine magnificence of this manor, its otherworldly height and breath, intoxicated her, and she would have liked nothing better than to turn her heels and run. For the first time, she was ashamed of her rough hands and the fine layer of dirt beneath her nails.

Perevil looked with bemused curiosity on the ragged girl before him. "Who do you say you are?"

She remembered her promise and summoned the courage to speak.

"You are supposed to know who I am." She said.

Perevil laughed, loudly, and his retainers followed suit. "What are you then? The angel of Annunciation? I can't make it out."

In dawned on her that this was no fairy tale-there would be no instance recognition and embrace, and her statement was presumptuous and glaringly foolish. But the words would not come, and she could not redeem herself.

"I am Evelyn. She told me you would know me. Again, my Lord," she added with a quick curtsey.

The color drained from the baron's face and Evelyn thought that, for all his splendor, he would vomit. "And your mother- she is dead I suppose?"

"Yes, My Lord, she was only just buried."

Lord Perevil paced and his long cape traced the floor. He bit his lip, and turned to her with wet eyes.

"Your mother is a fool. Come to me, girl."

She was angry and tried to pull away, but some power drew her to him. He held her shoulders.

"How old are you Evelyn?"

"I will be seventeen come St. Dominic's day, my lord." Her expression was still sour, and the baron noticed.

"Now, my girl," said the Baron. "My strong, lovely girl. Do not be bitter with me." He nestled his face into her hair. "We are blood," he whispered.

"I wish to walk with the girl," he said, and his retainers scattered.

He led her to garden that could have been Eden, it was so broad, so brilliantly plotted. There were countless alcoves for lovers to hide and pools of water where thrushes gathered and cleansed themselves. A warm breeze scattered the scent of lilies and Evelyn grew faint. They walked quietly to the far end of the path, where a yellow rosebuh stood. The baron reached out to take her arm but still, she shied from him.

"You are angry with me," he said, smiling gently.

"You said that my mother is a fool."

"She is-a great one. I knew she was proud, but I never knew the extent of it. She knew how I loved her, Leuruna…" . He had not said her name in years, and the sensation was bewildering.

Evelyn was silent, and he continued. "Your mother knew that my wife had died. If she had come to me I would have married her without hesitation. There would be little glory in marrying a woman of no birth, a Saxon even. But I have long known that the scorn of men has little value."

Evelyn now gazed at him, warmer. "But my point is, she did not come to me. She knew how I loved her, that if my bride were not already chosen from the finest family in the south, that if my father were not eagerly awaiting a high-born heir, I would have taken off with her- gone to Normandy or Saxony-anywhere. I should have done it anyway. So your lovely mother took her pregnant belly and left- no warning, and she took with her all that I valued."

"And my mother-she was your servant?" asked Evelyn.

"In a way. Before she came to Perevil she would perform in Nottingham with when the troubadours came to town-she was a dancer and had a pretty voice. I'm sure she told you this."

"Yes, mother was a glee-maiden."

"She saw me, and knew I was the baron's son. I will never forget how she teased me- the entire town was laughing, and yet I could not forget her. She said that I was cross-eyed and when I fought in the crusades I aimed for Jerusalem and freed Rome by mistake."

Evelyn held back a giggle.

"Yes, you've heard that one I imagine. I am still sport for all of Nottinghamshire, and I can thank your mother for that. But nothing could keep me from her. I was there at every performance only to let her mock me again. One night, after she had been particularly cruel, I confronted her. I lied to myself and said I would stop her from defaming me. But she wrapped her arms around my neck, and I took her to Perevil." The baron sighed.

"Our time together was too short- I thought she would remain my mistress when I married Lady Perevil, but it broke her heart to consider it. She sent you here?"

"Yes, Sire. She had me promise to come to you."

"I am glad of that. It shows that she still trusted me. But I could have taken care of her. She could have died in a comfortable bed." They sat side by side, staring out the silver pool of the garden. The baron then turned to Evelyn, and she gazed up at him. "And you are very much her daughter. And you are mine too." He touched the bridge of her nose.

"Do you have any other children, Sire?" It felt strange to say _other_, as though she really belonged to him.

"You mean do you have any half brothers or sisters? No, they're all buried in the churchyard. Lady Perevil bore me a sickly lot- dear, dear babes, but only my little heir Edmond made it past five. He died four years ago. Funny, the others died so sadly, but it was only a little cold that carried him off."

The baron's story transformed her surroundings. The cheerful garden, the gold and blue flags, the high turrets-all the bright elements of the castle, pervaded with a history of lost children, seemed bittersweet. The sun warmed the stone tablet where she sat with her father, and she thought of the shimmering rays through the window on the morning of her mother's death.

His mind drifted to the small graves in the churchyard, and from there to his departed wife. Catherine. She understood the necessity of leaving her father's people with their sweet-tongued accents and the lovely low hills of her homeland. She embraced the necessity and embraced marriage as a deadly serious prospect. She was a very young woman, but she knew from birth exactly what was expected of her and did not tremble at the altar. The witnesses thought her almost immodest in the resolution of her vows.

Their marriage was happy because it was her duty to make it happy. There was no poetry in her for Perevil did not expect such things in a wife. Catherine was a fertile woman, but her children were weak and died young. Perevil knew she meant him no harm, and did not reproach her. She in turn did not acknowledge that he had a child off another woman and behaved as though his sins were above reproach.

Her final child carried her off, and she was not sorry, because she had done her duty to the utmost and she was prepared to die. He trembled at the thought of her illness, of mortality in general, and he looked with pleasure on his daughter.

"But you're a healthy girl. Look at you- you're strong, lively, though you do not smile enough. If only I had married your mother, I should have a brood like you."

"Sire," she said cautiously, "That is cruel."

"Yes, it is cruel. You are a good girl to say so."

Perevil lead her indoors to the great hall, where his retainers were eating. Their dogs fought at their feet and one hound, paws on the table, lapped up a bowl of soup. The knights looked on in amazement as Perevil entered, clutching Evelyn's hand.

"I must explain myself," he whispered to Evelyn. "Or my men will be wondrous confused."

"Honor and protect this girl," he called out. "She is my natural daughter."

The knights said nothing, only smiled and nodded politely. The baron's lost child had been a source of speculation for years. She would be a perhaps a source of consolation to him in his declining years. They looked at each other, searching for greed or ambition in one another's faces. This girl would be another route to their lord's good graces, another way to win his ear, and each knight suspected the next of the same thought. But every face was still and benevolent.

Perevil nodded, pleased at the gentle reaction of his retainers. He guided the Evelyn, through the hall. The dogs sniffed at her feet, at the scent of earth and animals at the hem of her skirt, while she looked at the ornate carvings overhead. He led her to the chamber where he slept. Why not show her a few of the wonders he had collected? He rarely had guests, and he would enjoy her simple amazement.

First he guided her to the mirror, and stood beside her. She was nearly his height, though his bearing made him seem much taller.

"It was sent here from Italy," whispered Perevil with religious reverence. "There are only three like it in all of England."

It reflected her so clearly that she could feel the breath of the girl before her. She had seen herself in dark still water, in polished shields and in the of a hilt of a sword , but never had she been more than a trembling image. Here was a human, fleshed out. Her father laughed at her reaction

She did not like what she saw. Had she seen herself that morning she would not have minded. Everyone that she had known or played with resembled her. But the past few hours had spoiled her vision, and made her long for richer things. From the servants who shamelessly failed to conceal their shock to the breathtaking tapestries that lined the hall, everything conspired to mortify her. There was the film of dirt over her skin, her matted hair, and the heavy, shapeless wool garment-a hideous earth-green-that hung like a sack from her shoulders. Her own father seemed celestial beside her, in his brilliant tunic with silk accents, with his smooth, clefted face and shining hair. She thought of the ladies, the subjects of her father's tapestries, who sat in cool elegance in an impossible garden. She thought of the great hall, lined with the foreboding carved faces of long-dead baronesses, with features of haughty, unassailable beauty. She wanted to run.

"Don't look so forlorn, daughter," said Perevil.

"Father, I do not belong here."

He sighed. It had been cruel of him to show her off before she was properly dressed. But he cared very little about what others said about him, and he had to admit, it had been a bit of a pleasure to shock his retainers.


	2. Chapter 2

The small leather sack that Evelyn had brought with her contained what seemed now like rags, and she gave them to her hand-maiden Alice to sell. She felt strange at first in her new clothes, but they put her at ease. Made from the fine wool of the neck and underbelly of the sheep, they were airily light with fashionably broad sleeves. Her underclothes, linens of a fine weave, fell lightly against her skin. Her favorite article was the belt, engraved with eagles and set with polished stones that hung neatly from her hips. Her father gave her a case of jewels but she did not want to wear them. She did not want to seem ungrateful, so she covered her fingers with rings that she could hide at any moment under her sleeves. The rest of the jewels she kept in the leather case, opening them every day to marvel at them.

She had been there almost a year, and could have passed- in appearance at least- for any of the ladies in Perevil's retinue. But these were not her clothes: her rings were borrowed and would in time be taken from her. The castle's silence, from the whispering maids to the still flags in the high tower, spoke to its impermanence. She could not shake the impression that it would vanish, leaving her in a pile of glittering dust.

He had been pleasantly surprised how quickly she picked up needlework. Her years of tedious stitching under her mother's guidance had left her with nimble fingers. Lady Perevil had been no proficient and Perevil had always wanted a daughter who could weave and stitch extensive scenes. His knowledge of the craft was steeped in folklore, in the tale of Philomena, who wove a history that only her sister could read. He would have liked to have such an understanding between Evelyn and himself, and they designed a scene together rich in symbols only they could decipher.

They were happy together. Perevil had found someone that would listen to him. So long caught up in his own thoughts, his speech, a blend of poetry and reality, bordered on delusional. But Evelyn listened carefully, and it was some time before she realized that the stories he told her, that she interpreted as fables, he believed to be true.

She loved to hear of her mother. What lies he told her! His stories transformed the worn and secretive woman of her memory into a relic, a physical embodiment of enchantment. It was too laughable to take in earnest, and yet over time he managed through his lyric gifts to move her. She had two mothers now, the bitterly proud Saxon matron and also the fairy, delicate and universal as the dawn.

It had not occurred to Perevil that he had loved Leuruna and only her in the years since he had seen her. He had made no effort to find her and support her and though at times, and when Evelyn looked up at him in placid innocence, he struggled with a brief guilt, he comforted himself that she had never sought his aid, simply allowing him to meet his daughter when it suited him. She was in ways a difficult woman, easily irritated by words. In truth he had ceased to love her before his parents signed his marriage contract. It did not fit easily with his vision of himself to fall so quickly out of love- it was akin to breaking a promise. He should have seen her married! It would have been more just and would have saved her the discomfort of a fragile reputation. But he could not have borne it, the look of reproach. It would break her heart to be married off by his hand. Let her choose with time. She would come to see her own good, for the sake of the child, and he would provide a generous dowry.

But Leuruna did not choose, and though her love for him was clean hewn and healed over, she never settled as a comfortable wife.

He now fancied he loved Leuruna again, as he did in his distorted memory, and loved her through all the familiar features of his daughter's face. He did not realize that his memory of Leuruna was shapeless and all the features that stirred him were his own. Her nose was straight with a high bridge and her eyelids were deeply hued. He stared at her hands- though they were smaller he recognized Leuruna's coloring; each knuckle was pink, as though dusted over with color. But her hands were his hands, only smaller and more tapered.

Occasionally a wicked thought would overtake him-was she really his? His retainers believed so. They bowed their heads in approval and they were gentle in their support. She was so like him, and it was no evil thing for a man of his rank to have a natural daughter, the fruit of a simple youthful transgression. A son would be different. A son would grasp for land and rights he had no claim to. No, it was a good thing, a very innocent thing and a blessing to have a daughter to ease his old age.

But he swore he would test her. He would not accept her by her looks alone or her mother's promise. A woman's visage could deceive a man, and witchcraft lingered in appearances. Perevil recited the dangers and vowed to test her.

He read to her from his manuscripts, pulling his nose from the parchment every so often. How did she respond? She sat unspeaking, and his heart swelled when she did not smile, but looked at him with understanding.

"You don't respond," he said.

"It reminds me of a story I once heard." And she recited a simple tale of the crusades, a siege and rescue, but Perevil was convinced it was a story he had chronicled himself. His retainers had no choice but to agree.

She was curious, and wanted to learn to read. Her mother and all the men and women she had known had been illiterate, but she was fascinated with her father's expression as he sorted through his documents or turned to her and read aloud a phrase that he especially liked. He did not like devotional works, only poetry. He preferred the stories of knights on crusade. His own experience had been gruesome. He had seen poor men trampled underfoot by their own commanders and his battalion failed to make any conquests. But his memory was growing weak, and he was able to selectively insert the glowing scenes from epic verse into his own experience. Evelyn wanted to collect and keep her father's poetry, but the phrases were so alien to her that she could not remember them. So Perevil taught her a little reading. It was a game for him. He did not expect her to be truly literate, and would not have liked it either. But it was the first time in years that he had felt useful.

Evelyn's entrance into his life, with all its pleasures, had saddled Perevil with a new sense of uncertainty. He did not see his death in the future but he felt a faint sense that something should be done. She could not be his heiress, and he needed to find her a home before his death. Her situation was highly unusual. He could fit her with a formidable dowry, but he knew the inestimable pride of the surrounding families- his daughter's blood and uncouth history would inevitably close marriage agreements. Among the native families, the gruff Saxon lords that sat on their holdings like a toad over a jewel, her virginity would be more crucial than any dowry. He believed in her purity because it suited him, but could not vouch for it. And the story of her birth and discovery was so doubtful- the only document alluding to her existence was a paltry sentence in a Saxon church in Harvens.

But most great houses carried some stain of illegitimacy. Perhaps a powerful family could provide the backing to proclaim Evelyn heir to Perevil. Then at least his descendants could enjoy his estate rather than dying out in a distant house. His name was great though he sensed his character was suspect. The northern lords, with their constant warring and political rivalry, considered scholarly work and an excessive interest in appearances effeminate, and he could not, for all his capacity for delusion, escape the sense that they despised him.


	3. Chapter 3

Though Perevil would have preferred to live in peace at home, his sense of duty forced him to arrange a marriage for his only daughter. He preferred to seek out the sons of those closest to him in mind, those with whom he could confide. Sir William of Banterglade, several years older, had sparred with him, broken bread with him, and his father had singled him out as a role model for Perevil, There was no real intimacy between them, but they respected each other and still held to the roles of teacher and student. Sir William was one of the few local landholders who knew enough about life at Court to respect Perevil's scholarship and culture. He had three sons fighting under King Richard, a married daughter in the south of England, but William, a young man of nineteen, was not yet betrothed.

The manor house was simpler than hers, resembling more an overgrown cottage than a castle. Carved anonymous figures decorated the roof's edge. Inside it was pleasantly cool with a stone floor, and the walls that emitted the rich scent of sun-heated wood. Sir William had been known as a giant in his youth, when he fought beside Lord Perevil in the crusades. His body was still formidable, though his weathered face, etched with countless lines, seemed prematurely aged.

He did not want to insult his friend. He had known the baron since childhood, and had the greatest respect for him. But there was something grotesque in the arrival of this new daughter of doubtful heritage. He wondered whether the baron had truly fathered the girl and, if not, how she had managed to impose herself upon him. He did not relish the idea of being laughed at, of having his son embroiled in a low marriage, if the girl's deception were uncovered. But the girl who came before him was younger than he imagined-she was tall and healthy, but her expression was unclear and listless.

He felt a distinct irritation that Will had run off. Why did the boy have to embarrass him before Perevil? His son had been wandering the woods with George, the steward's son. William wished that his son would avoid the woods- too many stories of outlaws. They liked to prey on the foolish pretensions of a young man. A boy would return, chastened and stripped of his finery-perhaps he would have to run through the woods with a thin linen sheath- there was a terrible story of Sir Heinrich's son, an spoiled, greedy lad who hurried home at dawn, stark naked. Supposedly his linens themselves, stitched with golden thread, were too great a temptation for the thieves. The story was too delicious, no amount of money could prevent the servants from gossiping and songs and stories flooded his village, spread to Nottingham, and the boy could not show his face for shame. Will, indulged in every other respect, wore underclothes like a peasant's that chafed his chest and limbs.

Sir William was luckily saved the humiliation of waiting long. The boy came on horseback, and hurried his horse into a gallop as he approached.

"My son, William," he said, introducing his son. "Lord Perevil has graced us with his company. I would like you to meet his- his daughter Evelyn."

"I did not think that this day would bring such a pleasure." Said William. He dismounted and spoke the necessary greeting without enthusiasm. It would not be comely to show too eager an interest in a girl that his father would certainly not wish him to marry.

Evelyn flushed, and Will realized that she would not attempt a reply. She fixed her eyes on him like a stunned deer and he was a little shocked by her bad manners. But it dawned on him that she did not know how to conduct herself. And it was not the shyness of a convent upbringing. He had heard that she was a wild girl, newly brought in from a secluded village, and all his expectations were justified.

She was not ill favored, but her beauty was of a rustic kind, without taste. There was an excessive darkness in the contours her deep-set eyes and feral hair, and he sensed something willful, even malicious in her expression.

But Evelyn was not silent for lack of words. It was her first impression of Will-his single, dismissive glance in her direction, a quick appraisal and an exit. It would have hurt another girl, and hardened her against him. But Evelyn had not yet formed a heady enough sense of self to be wounded. Instead she held that impression of him fast, and all distractions-shifting clouds overhead, the horse's gleaming coat, the sound of a mill in the distance- were built into the memory like human debris into a bird's nest. She wished to bottle his image, to keep it conserved for some later date, that she might hold it in her hand. It seemed too coarse to wish for Will himself.

Will had an angular face with light brown hair and wide green eyes. His features were regular, but when he spoke his mouth shifted slightly to the side. He had the finest leg and the fastest horse in the county. He held himself too high, and was careful in his appearance. His father took pride in him, the servants took pride in him He was everything that a good family could want in a son. His parents, his beaming father and shy, dutiful mother, could not have borne to part with him, and he knew it. He talked of proving himself in the Crusades, of his father's stubbornness in holding him back, but his life as the promising son of a respected family suited him perfectly. He looked at the house, with its large hall and ample sleeping room, at the granaries and distant grazing fields dappled with livestock as his own, and he liked to think of it as his own, though of course he would have balked at the notion of his father's death. He knew he would be married, and was pleased with the fact. Of course the neighboring gentry brought over their daughters, good girls, pleasant girls, but they did not conform to his ideal. He had built the ideal bride, and she was a conglomeration of all feminine perfections, gleaned from mythology and tales, from devotional passages and household advice. She had hair the precise hue of gold, was fair, and tall, meek but wise, domestic but valiant. Her bloodline must be ancient, her virtue impeccable, her voice angelic, and all her desires would conform to his.

Evelyn barely slept that night. The bedroom was unpleasantly warm and she stood by the window to cool herself. She looked out onto the meadow behind the house, lit by moonlight, and she imagined herself more daring, with the courage to run into its depths. But they already knew her as a wild girl. She would have to calm herself.

It was easier than she thought. She spent the next day in the great hall, embroidering and listening to her father as he and Sir William went over memories and stories she had heart countless times before. She lifted her head to the window to watch Will as he practiced archery, or sparred with a local boy. She wished she had the words to entertain him, not that she could speak to him without encouragement.

He came in from time to time, making her an attentive bow with a smile that was half polite and half mocking. Evelyn always smiled back, but slightly, and quickly averted her gaze. At his father's instigation, he took her for a short walk in the late afternoon, but walked slightly ahead of her, and said little. The walk was easy, just around the property to view the mills and farmers wrapping up their chores. But the weight of his silence exhausted her, and she wondered if she would fall down from so much humiliation.

Later that evening Sir William called his son into his bedroom. He lifted the tallow candle so that it illuminated his face, and placed it on the window sill.

"You must try to be more attentive to young Evelyn," he said.

"But why? I know you have no intention of marrying her to me."

"I can't afford to alienate my neighbors. And Lord Perevil is a good friend-you know that."

"Yes, but we've known him for years. Who is this girl?"

"He seems to care for her- enough to fit her with a rich dowry." Will cast down his gaze. He didn't like that money would enter into his father's plans for him.

"At least pretend to court her." Entreated his father.

"That's a strange exercise. Why would I court a girl who is already won?"

William paled. He held fast to his son's arm. "Son, has something happened between you?"

"Oh, not in body, dear father. But that is she is won at heart is clear to all eyes."

"I'm ashamed of you," said Sir William, suppressing a laugh. He was proud of his son, an excellent horseman and irresistible to girls.

Evelyn knelt in a shady corner, lost in her embroidery. Will approached stealthily, careful not to block the stream of incoming sunlight that illuminated the fabric and her active hands. He admired her work. He had seen better, but for a girl who year before had been little better than wild, her fingers moved as deftly as a lute player's.

"What is that- a cuckoo?"

She looked up, startled. A quick smile darted across her face and she covered her mouth with her sleeve.

"No," she said slowly. "It's a phoenix."

"Ah. I've never seen one."

She laughed softly. "No, I don't think you have. "

He knelt beside her. So she knew things that he did not! "You have seen one?"

"No, nor has anyone that I know." She started carefully, and then spoke faster, energized by her words. "The phoenix lives in Arabia, and there is only one. When it grows old, it builds a pyre with pomegranates and strange spices. It faces the sun and begins to burn. It fans the fire with its wings until it burns to ash."

"What a ghastly bird!"

"But it comes back. A new phoenix will rise from the ashes."

"I still think it's disgusting. Why would you work with such a pattern?"

"I think it's a beautiful story. I like the idea that one can be reborn."

"Like you?"

Evelyn flushed. She always seemed to squirm when reminded that no, she was not always a daughter of Perevil. But her answer was clear and resolute. "I have not been reborn. It would be blasphemous to say so. I was born once and christened in Harvens church. I should be ashamed, but I am not. I am the daughter of a free woman."

Will was surprised to see her quiet reserve broken.

"Hush," he said. "Be careful with your words."

Evelyn bit her lip, and he knew that she regretted speaking so freely

"I am sorry," she said. "I did not wish to offend you."

"And you have not. I don't quiet you for my sake. But people will judge you here. They may forgive you your background, if only you take care not to remind them of it."

Evelyn grimaced, involuntarily. She pulled tufts of grass out of the earth and tossed them. Will continued to speak. She seemed to note everything that he said with such care, that he felled in impelled to be honest with her. He stared onto the open field, and watched his father. "I think you know we will never be married."

He thought he saw he saw her flinch. But when he turned to her, she nodded calmly, though her hands tore at the grass.

"But I want to help you. I want to tell you the truth. You're trying your best. I can see you've excelled in your needlework."

"I have always worked with my hands."

Will blushed. Why did she have to say such embarrassing things?

"I see. But you must ask your father for a woman to look after you."

"I have a woman. I have …"

"Oh- the old Saxon. She seems kind-hearted. But what I mean is a lady, a lady who has seen the court, who can teach you things."

Evelyn remembered the tedious dancing lessons. "What more do I need to know?"

"You know nothing of the court. It used to be about war, war, some religion, and more war. When Queen Eleanor arrived, things changed- men's eyes were opened to the beauty of the women around them, and they learned to feel the agonies of love. It brought the court to life, it brought poetry and music. But a woman must earn a man's love, his suffering, through beauty and elegance."

"I don't wish to cause anyone pain."

Will clenched his teeth, frustrated. She was so simple! "It is a most exquisite suffering," he said shortly.

"But it is still unnecessary."

"Like I said, you must be careful how you speak. You seem to revel in your own ignorance."

Evelyn reddened and struggled to meet his gaze. "That is unfair. I have never had a chance to learn."

Will laughed "But you don't want to learn!"

"I do, but these customs are strange to me. Making a man love you, in order to hurt him-"

"You of all people must learn our customs."

"Our customs? You talk as though I were a foreigner!"

"You may as well be. You are fortunate to have a great dowry."

"What do you know of my dowry?"

"You must have a good one, with the suitors your father entertains. But do you want men to pursue you solely out of greed?" He spoke with misleading warmth. "If you are so persistent in playing the ignorant country girl, if you wear your hair and hold yourself like a Saxon, you may be married, but it will not be for your qualities."

Evelyn's expression was hard, but her chin shook and she held back tears. Her hands moved restlessly, as though she could not decide what to do with them, and Will felt bad. He had not meant to hurt her. But he must not seem as though he could be cowed with weeping. He continued to smile, awkwardly.

"I have spoken too plainly," he said.

"Pray, excuse me." Evelyn darted to her feet, and hurried to the house, her skirts seeming to ripple in the heat.


	4. Chapter 4

Once in her room, Evelyn gasped, and peeled off her clothes to her linens. Her shame could not erase Will's figure, his easy smile and the flecks of gold in his eyes. She knew she would have to forget him, that he would never marry her. But she felt that even if he were to lead her to the altar, she could not recite her vows, not when he saw her as he did. His laughing, playful manner, sweet and sharper than malice, forced her to put him aside. It was no easy task. Though she had known him less than a day, she felt that she was shutting out the world, housing herself in a convent.

She undid her braids and swept out the ornaments so that her hair hung in loose waves over her chest. Saxon hair. Will believed that it was, though she could not to save her life say what made it so. The air began to darken from a fleeting summer storm. A humid breeze passed through the cracks in the window and flooded the room with ripe air.

Evelyn rubbed her eyes, and stared in the glass as though hypnotized. Her face changed with the passing clouds, growing alternately bright and dark. Her skin was flushed with heat, and her cheeks were red. I am not ugly, she thought and the idea calmed her.

She lay down and the pillow was cool against her skin. She thought of her sleek face, of a great dynastic marriage, of all the steps that would allow her to sneer at Will and his paltry manor. It was the only comfort within her grasp, and she clung to it. Intricate tapestries, halls lit with a thousand candles, Will's face pale with envy-the images lulled her and curling up under the quilt, she felt sleep overtake her. But she remembered the curve of Will's shoulders, his posture, and above all, the callous lilting of his voice, and she sat up in bed, hopelessly awake.

The rain fell hard. Evelyn tried to pinpoint the intensity of her feelings, tried to locate the precise feature that drew her to him. He had a quality that was entirely alien to her- gestures she had never seen on this earth, and yet there was something achingly familiar about him, something known to her from sleepless nights at Harvens. Though in all logic she knew she had never seen him before, she could not shake herself of the conviction of knowing him. She looked out the window anxiously. He was out there, soaking up the rain, or in the house, under the same roof as she was. The thought pacified her, and exhausted, she fell asleep.

Will was not used to guilt, and the sensation was all the more disturbing for its novelty. When Evelyn ran from him, he sat dumbfounded for a moment. She had left her embroidery and he took it in his hands and admired it. The phoenix's body and tongue were a brilliant red, with a golden beak and plumage- she had planned it from nothing, and yet it was so complex. Looking at the phoenix, and its beautiful execution, he felt worse than before, though he could not say why. He had failed Sir William in his foremost task, which was to show Evelyn 'every courtesy.' But Will was spoiled, and he knew that his father could not truly be ashamed of him. No, it was not disobedience. He knew he had done wrong, and what disturbed him most was his inconsistency-that he had used the laws of gallantry to distress a woman. With her unusual background and objectionable pedigree, Evelyn was not what he imagined a lady _could be_, but she was still worthy of respect. She had borne his criticisms with patience until he had been outright cruel, but she was not weak, and raised her voice to defend herself. He thought of the serene intelligence of her eyes when she spoke of the phoenix, and how her lips pressed together when he had criticized her. He could not make her out- she was secretive, a sphinx, and he wanted desperately to blame her for his guilt. He wondered if he should apologize, but remembered that he had never apologized and did not know how. Will saw her briefly at her window, a distant figure with dark hair brushing against her waist. She had taken out her braids-it must have been what he said. He noticed the shape of her arms before realizing that she was barely dressed and averting his eyes. He was tempted, and looked again, but she was gone.

He walked into the kitchen, where Alice was helping the other servants with dinner. "I would like to speak to Lady Evelyn," he said . "She left her embroidery on the lawn."

"Yes, it's a fine work too, is it not, sir?"

"Yes, it's very fine. Is she in the house?"

"I believe she is asleep, sir."

"At this hour?"

"It's a very hot day, sir. Should I give the Lady Evelyn her needlework?"

"No," he said protectively. "I shall give her myself, thank you." Alice's smirked and it irritated him.

He waited for her for three hours. He hid the embroidery in his room. He walked on the lawn, worked a target with his bow, and wandered to the mill where peasants gathered with their grain. He sat in the tall grass and watched a passing flock of sheep and whistled to the dog at their heels. The shepherdess thought he was calling to her and frowned at him. He returned to Banterglade, picked up the embroidery, and stood before the door for several moments. He imagined her in her nightgown, dark hair over a white pillow with perhaps a single bead of sweat on her forehead. He was surprised when the door open, and Evelyn appeared before him, fully dressed in green, with the eagle belt over her hips and her hair not braided, but down over her shoulders.

"You changed your hair," he said stupidly. Her expression clouded over and he hurriedly passed her embroidery. "You left this on the lawn."

"And you should have left it there," she said, passing him. "It's an foolish pattern. I don't know what possessed me to think of it."

"Can I keep it then?" he asked, smiling.

"No, of course not." she said, taking it from him. "Besides, it's not finished. And I would not have you think that I changed my hair because of your words." She pressed her lips together, and turned, walking, towards the stairs. "You are proud enough as it is," she murmured, just loud enough so that he could hear her. He followed her down the stairs into the garden.

"I am sorry for what I said," he called after her, amazed at how easy it was to say.

She stopped, and he hurried to her side. "Please try to understand me," he said. "I sometimes think too highly of my own understanding. Will you walk with me?"

Evelyn did not have the resolve to protest. Without a word she placed her hand on the cool breadth of his. They walked over the lawn, by the tree where she had been embroidering, and he led her to a familiar forest path. He instinctively guided her over the rocks in the path, but she seemed to know her own way, as though she had been there before.

It was a rich hour, still poignantly damp from the afternoon rain. It was the hour before Vespers, when the whirring insects hushed and the leaves began to stir. Evelyn seemed more active, as though finally breaking free from sleep. She looked down at their clasped hands and, finally realizing the meaning of the gesture, she pulled hers away. It hurt him.

He remembered his words to his father _She is already won_ with some regret. He could not know it for certain. There was nothing clear in her gaze, and that was what repelled him at first. Everything he knew was clean, bright, and direct. Wars were won through God's grace, and only liars evaded the truth. But there was an aspect in her that did not fit into his image of right and wrong. He wondered if were being tempted from the right path, if he would drown in an attempt to decipher her expression. Even now, he felt lost at sea, awash in those strange mists that lure the sailor from his course.

But he could not think that way. She was only a girl, and she had done nothing to deceive him. He was tempted to take up her hand, to see what she would do, but she was so lost in her surroundings that it seemed like an intrusion. They approached a small wheelbarrow, overrun with moss, that he had played with as a very child. He pushed it to see if it would still toll, and the planks fell out from their iron casing and scattered over the leaves. Evelyn stooped beside him. She picked up one of the planks and crying out, dropped it quickly.

"What is it?" asked Will.

"Ants," she said, brushing off her arms. The creatures were quick and sharp.. "A mountain of them."

"Have you read anything of ants in those books of yours?" he asked, watching her with good humor. "Or can only oddities like Griffons and Satyrs hold your interest?"

She shook her arms and laughed. "Ants are supposed to be very industrious."

"I can see that for myself. Did they even have ants in the ancient time, or only more exciting creatures like your Pholnix?"

"Phoenix," she said. "And they did have ants. My father has a piece of amber, found in the German Sea at the time of Christ, and several ants were trapped inside."

"How disgusting! I wonder why they didn't toss it back in that German Sea!"

Evelyn was bitten again and she struggled to reach her back and brush the ants away.

"Let me help you," said Will approaching her carefully. She composed herself and breathed deeply. He applied himself steadily, brushing her shoulders and back until they were clear. He could not help making a final sweeping motion over her back with both hands and resting the tips of his fingers over her waist. He waited. Her shoulders had stiffened and her breathing heightened. He trembled with pleasure at the power of his own touch, but he could not in honor continue. He drew back with careful steps.

She turned to face him and they were silent. She looked down as though to continue to clean her sleeves, and he shifted his gaze as though taking in the surroundings, but it would have been the same if they had stared directly at each other. They were painfully aware of each other

"The Vespers bells are ringing," she breathed, breaking the still. It was harder for him to break from the lull of their hour together and he stood like an idiot, with his mouth open, before regaining his composure and guiding her home.


End file.
